Final Fantasy: The War To End All Wars
by Twilight-Link
Summary: Inspired by RikuNghts' FF ANAB. The World is at war. The UN is desperate for an end to the bloodshed that the Soviet Union has reaked upon the world. They hired a taskforce of Rebels and Mercs, and the Final Fantasy warriors might be lending a hand...
1. A Crash Landing

Final Fantasy: The War to End All Wars.

A/N: I was inspired to write this Fic by RikuNghts' Final Fantasy: A New Age Begins.

I, Twilight-Link, am trying to create a new Earth. Much different from the one that we know today. I need the readers of this Fanfic to submit their OCs via E-mail or a review. I will be doing most of the writing, but I will allow you to notify me of what your character would do or say in a certain situation, after all it is a joint project: you read and submit your OCs and I bring them to life, simple as that. Also, you can submit two characters. (That's the max amount.)

Here's some background. The year is 2200, and Earth has been devastated by the third World War. At the beginning of the WWIII, the newly reborn Soviet Union has become powerful once again. Ruled by a single man, Mikhail Radomir, who is bent on world domination, as the war raged on, the U.N, tried diplomatic negotiations, but they all failed. Finally, at the climax of war, the leader of the U.S.S.R. had what he wanted: world domination. Now what remains of the U.N. has hired a taskforce of ragtag rebels and mercenaries to put an end to the Soviet Union once and for all.

Oh, there's a twist. Assistance comes from unanticipated places; the characters of Final Fantasy VII, VIII and X suddenly appear on the war-torn world. While they are adjusting to this new world, they are forced to make a choice. Fight alongside the Rebels, or be killed by the very people who took them in. I'll let you figure out the rest by yourself, friends. Is that too little info? I hope not, let's just call it a cliff hanger, shall we?

If you're interested in submitting a character, here's what I need: Name, Codename, Age, Physical Description, (height, weight, hair, eye color, their build, and any other striking physical characteristics.) Weapon of Choice, Job(s), (listed below), History, Home Country, Languages they speak, Personality, Possible Love Interest, Reason for fighting, What they have against the bad guys, and a Favorite quote of theirs, (optional). Create little relationships, between the FF characters and the OCs if you want. But, the FF people will not like the OCs; they might flirt occasionally, but otherwise, nope. That would drive me insane from trying to please everyone. And I don't need that to happen! I'm crazy enough as is! (May change me mind later, I like being crazy. Smirks.) On another note: this Fic will not become a Mary Sue! I swear on my honor it will not become a Mary Sue!

Jobs: Sharpshooter, Swordsmen, Sniper, Medic, Communications, Hacker, Demolitions, Heavy Weapons, Pilot, Infiltration, Scouting, Interrogation, Strategist, Espionage, Bombardier, (fires Artillery, my personal favorite tool of warfare), and Weapon Designer. (Only need one W.D.)

I think I'm done rambling for now. So I'll start the first Chappie! I'll introduce my OC and a little bit about how the resistance is doing. (Who is out by himself right now, separated from the rest of the gang, if you get your OC in soon I'll include him or her in the next Chapter!)

Note: If any of the OCs or FF people seem out of character, please tell me and I will rectify the problem. Thanks.

Chapter I

A Crash Landing

A lone figure stood on the edge of an abandoned highway, the embers at the tip of his cigarette glowing brightly in the darkness. The highway was surrounded on both sides by a dark and ominous forest, adding a menacing feeling to the atmosphere. The man's tan trench coat billowed around his ankles, dancing in a small gust of wind. His gaze shifted to the stars, one of the few beautiful things left in this war torn world. Then his gaze settled on the moon, and he scowled darkly. The moon was once a stunning orb, now it was a grotesque crescent; a mockery of its former self.

The man sighed and looked down at the pavement. The young man had unkempt black hair with graying tips, something that was uncommon in his age group, which was kept out of his blue eyes by a red bandana. He was wearing a blue T-shirt and old brown jeans, which hung loosely over his black combat boots. He drew from within his coat, a pistol; he checked the clip, full, he reinserted the clip and stuck the gun back into its holster. He then looked back up at the stars and noticed something, something unusual.

It was bright pinprick in the night sky. It was unlike any other star in the night sky, it was a vivid red and it seemed to grow larger and larger with each second that passed. The man scrutinized the pinprick for a moment, staring at it intently.

Suddenly a look of sheer terror formed on his face, his eyes growing wide with fear, his cigarette falling out of his mouth. "Oh, bloody hell!" He shouted as he bolted to the left, running as fast as his legs would carry him. The spot where he had been standing was about to become the center point of an impact crater. As soon as he was sure that he had exited the blast radius, he turned around to look, panting heavily.

He watched in horror as the pinprick streaked across the sky, leaving a trail of fiery red behind it as it flew through the atmosphere. Then it struck the ground with a resounding crash that seemed to cause the entire world to shudder. The man shielded his eyes from the brilliant flash of light, squinting to see if he could make anything out in the explosion as the object struck the Earth. When the light dissipated, leaving the area in darkness once more, the man lowered his arm and began to run towards the crash site.

The area around the crater had been flattened, some trees had been uprooted or bent over at the base of their trunks, and the land scorched and scarred from the intense heat, gray ash that had been thrown up when the object had struck the ground, hiding the night sky from view. The man peered cautiously over the edge of the crater, staring down into the bowl shaped depression. The crater was much smaller than he had expected. It was about 20 feet deep, and about 20 yards wide. Then his gaze settled on the object in the center of the crater. It was an airship. The flying craft was ablaze, crimson and gold flames twisted and writhed around the frame of the fallen aircraft, distorting it even more from its former glory. No one could have survived an impact like that; all of the passengers were probably dead.

The man sighed, and drew from within a pocket of his coat, a small cross. He closed his eyes, kissed the crucifix, crossed himself with it and muttered a short prayer in Italian. As he turned to leave, he noticed something. Eight parachutes lay about 20 feet away from him. Apparently, a group of people had just sky dived or they were the survivors of the airship crash.

"Thank the lord." The man muttered, dropping the cross back into his pocket. He walked over to the used parachutes, and picked up one. It was covered in ash, just as everything else around the crater. Finding nothing on the parachute, he tossed it aside, and then he saw tracks leading away from the parachutes, toward a nearby grove of trees.

"Boot prints." The man whispered, almost inaudible. He followed the tracks, right to edge of the wood. He stopped and peered into the darkness of the trees, trying to see any signs movement. Seeing none, he decided to take a chance, drawing his pistol, he took a step into grove.

He was almost immediately swallowed by darkness as he proceeded deeper into the wood; he knew he should've brought his flashlight. He holstered his pistol, it being useless in the darkness, and drew from his pocket a lighter and flipped it open; it illuminated the darkness, allowing him to see two feet in front of him. "Mighty creepy in here…" He murmured, apprehensively, looking around in the flickering light of his make shift torch.

Suddenly he heard a rustling sound to the left of him; he turned to see a flash of fiery red fur disappearing into the underbrush. He cocked an eyebrow. "What the hell…?" He muttered, shutting his lighter, and followed the flash of red.

He watched from behind a tree as the thing emerged from the trees into a clearing. It resembled a medium sized dog, yet had the mane and tail of a lion, it glanced around the clearing and the man could see the distinctive XIII tattooed on one of its forearms. Then it did something that stunned the man near to the very point of fainting. It talked.

"Its all clear," it said, its voice sounded, well…educated, "come on out." When it said this, seven more people emerged from the surrounding trees. Seven of the weirdest looking people he had ever seen, I mean, one of them had freakin' claw bolted onto his arm! He was pretty sure that none of them were on the 'list'. He decided to watch the group in question, so he shifted into a more comfortable position by the tree and started to observe his quarry. They were only visible by the light from the moon, that shone down into the clearing. It was unnaturally intense tonight.

Tifa walked over to the depressed pilot, and placed a hand on his shoulder, comfortingly. "I'm sorry about the Highwind, Cid." She said, staring into his light blue eyes. The man said nothing, he responded only by pulling a cigarette from the pack that was held to the side of his head by the strap of his pilot's goggles and lighting it. He extinguished the match and took a long draw on the cigarette.

"She was a fine ship." Cloud said shifting his sword to a more comfortable position on his shoulder as Tifa walked back over to his side.

"…I concur." Vincent added, solemnly.

"She went out in a blaze of glory," Red XIII said, his tail twitching, "she died, protecting her passengers…"

"And she did a good job…" Cait Sith continued, taking the small crown from between his ears and held it near his heart, his giant Moogle that he rode on looked genuinely sad. All attention turned to Barret and Yuffie, who had not said a word during this conversation. Barret shrugged.

"Don't got nothin' to say." He replied, folding his arms over his chest.

Yuffie sighed. "Cid, the Highwind was nice, but I keep puking. And I'm sorry 'bout that…" She trailed off.

Cid looked at the gang, and sighed, lighting another cigarette. "Hell, when I get my hands on my baby again, give me a couple of months and she'll look like a streamlined butterfly." He said, taking another long draw on his cigarette and flashing his signature smile.

"Hmm, that's sounds…" Yuffie trailed off, seeing the glare Cid had just flashed her. Barret snickered.

"Looks like the real Cid is already back." He said, nodding approvingly. Cid's gaze settled on the black man.

"Damn right," He said, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, "now let's get the hell out of here." They all nodded and turned to leave when they heard this, they stopped in their tracks.

"You know the comment about the streamlined butterfly? Well, it's gonna take more than a couple of months to fix that, a couple of years, maybe. I mean, damn, the thing is a wreck." Stated a voice from the trees that surrounded the clearing. Almost a second after the voice had finished the sentence; everybody had drawn their respective weapons, and was scanning the tree line for any signs of movement.

Suddenly a young man stepped out from the trees, smiling calmly even though he had an assortment of weaponry pointed at him. "Whoa, what a variety we got here. What's that old saying? Variety equals victory or something like that." The man said, not a hint of fear in his voice, walking forward.

The man approached Cloud and examined him from head to toe. "I bet you are the intrepid leader." He then said, calmly extending his hand, after a moment's hesitation, Cloud shook it.

"Who the fuck are you?" Cid growled, brandishing his Venus Gospel threateningly. The man turned to him and smiled politely.

"No one knows my name. Though my coworkers call me Saint. Plain and simple." Saint replied, turning back to Cloud. "And you are?" He asked, his gaze shifting from one to another of Cloud's group.

"Oh… right," He muttered, eyeing Saint suspiciously, "I'm… Cloud Strife, Tifa Lockhart, Barret Wallace, Cait Sith, Red XIII, Yuffie Kisaragi, Vincent Valentine, and you've met our pilot, Cid Highwind." He finished, pointing at each person as he named them off.

Cid stood glowering at Saint. "I don't trust this guy." He said, and he had good reason to, they all did.

Saint turned to him. "I understand that. I wouldn't trust me either." He said, with a smirk. This infuriated Cid even more, and his day hadn't started too well either, the man was basically fuming at the ears.

Cait Sith laughed. "Finally another person with a sense of humor!" He said, gratefully, he walked his Moogle over to Saint and extended his hand.

Saint shook it, but he looked confused as he did so. "What the hell are you?"

Vincent chuckled. "Many of us have asked him that question," he said, "that's not the real Cait Sith. We're not even sure of his real name."

"Really?" Saint asked Vincent and some of the others nodded. "Then what is…uh…it?" He said, jacking a thumb at Red XIII.

"A research experiment." Red XIII replied, rather flatly.

Saint looked freaked out by this new statement. "Well, um, yeah. We should get moving."

"Wait a tic." Tifa said, warily. "Why should we trust you?"

"A good question." Saint replied, turning back to face her. "If you follow me all of your questions shall be answered."

"I'm in." Said Cloud and Barret in unison. The two stared at each other for a second, and then looked quickly away.

"…I would appreciate some answers right about now." Vincent added, joining in step with Saint. Yuffie, Red XIII and Cait Sith followed closely behind. Tifa looked at the utterly confused Cid, who shrugged, and the two followed the group. To where? Only Saint knew.

Saint smiled. "Pay your last respects to the Highwind now, before we get any farther." He said, without looking behind him. He then climbed back into the dark of the forest, his mind wandering. He clicked his lighter open again and lit the way through the darkened forest. When the reached the edge of the forest, Saint looked around carefully and beckoned them to follow. "Stay in the shadows, and tell me if you see anything… _anything_."

"Why?" Cloud asked, curious.

"You'll see." Was Saint's only reply.

Saint's mood had improved greatly, finally, more soldiers to help the cause… he hoped they would survive longer than the last ones. Saint chuckled; they would have to be tested…

A/N: Finally after three days! I finished the first Chappie! Submit your OCs and any ideas you may have. Have fun with it. Till next time. Read and Review, people!

T.L.


	2. Fear The Reaper

Final Fantasy: The War To End All Wars, Chap 2.

A/N: Praise be to God! I've got my first Character review! Congrats, DemonDoor! Welcome to FF: The War To End All Wars! Vemar Izuho will be introduced in this Chappie and also the FFVIII cast! I need a smidgeon more info about 'The Reaper's' persona. Tell me, how does he react to certain things, oh say…taking orders from a person of higher rank than him? Hmm? I need to be exact in my details, in order to please all of my readers. Oh, and another thing: how does he react around young children? Does he smile or something along those lines? Oh, and does your character have a car or vehicle of some sort?

I also forgot to mention in the last Chappie, I'd like to give everybody a theme song. For example: Saint's theme is Green Day's 'Boulevard of Broken Dreams'. Also to the others who have not reviewed my fic: Read and Review people! Have fun with it though! Send in your Character's stats! Also I need to have female OCs! I like all of the characters I'm receiving but I just need some women. So submit some ladies, please.

Now on with the Fic!

Note: If I portray any of the FFVIII characters or the OC incorrectly, please notify me, and I will rectify the problem. Thank ya, kindly. Oh, and there's lots of killin' in this Chappie!

Chapter II

Fear 'The Reaper'

The Yugoslavian City of Pristina lay ruined in the early morning light. The once beautiful metropolis now only resembled only one thing: pandemonium. Pure and irrepressible anarchy, which was ripping the city apart at its seams. The people who were too poor to leave this damned city had only one choice: live in fear of Death, who awaited you around every corner, across every street, and in every alleyway. However, they are a few who survived the hell on Earth that is Pristina; and at this moment one of them was crouched on the side of collapsed office building, watching the chaos below him. He scowled, as he watched two men mug a youth, who couldn't be more than fourteen years old and leave him, bloodied on the sidewalk.

The tall, athletic young man sighed, his breath ruffling the old red scarf that hung over the lower portion of his face. His short black hair was spiked up, a few stray bangs hung over his face; he brushed the bangs aside, revealing the scar that ran the length of his forehead. His mismatched eyes scoured the streets for any signs movement, his right eye, was white, while his other was black. His white cape was now a silvery gray, thanks to the ash from the fires that burned almost continuously around the ruined city. His torso was covered by his cape; underneath the cape he was wearing a black shirt and faded black jeans, which clung tightly around his black combat boots. Strapped to his waist was a pair of Samurai katanas in black scabbards.

He sighed again, and leapt down from his perch. He landed on the sidewalk below in cloud of gray ash, dusting himself off; he started walking down one of the familiar sidewalks of his old hometown. He turned to his left at the corner and continued walking, stepping over a corpse that was lying on the pavement, his vacant eyes stared up at the heavens, a bullet hole in the center of his right temple. The man slowly came to a halt in front of a large warehouse; the front of the unimpressive structure was riddled with many bullet holes, letting beams of light filter through into the old building. The man drew from his pocket a slip of paper, and examined the address on the paper, then the one stamped on the side of the storehouse.

"This is it…" He muttered, crumpling the paper into a ball and tossing it aside. He pushed the door open, smiling as it creaked slowly opened. He stepped into the warehouse and was stopped by a small, mousy haired woman wearing a black dinner suit. She pulled her suit jacket open to show that she was armed.

"What business do you have with the Don Josef Tatyana?" She inquired threateningly in Russian, the man's grin grew wider, a frenzied gaze in his mismatched eyes. The Tatyana's were about to receive a large delivery of ordnance from the U.S.S.R. and with any luck, a Soviet officer and perhaps a detachment of soldiers would be present, guarding the officer.

"…Tell the Don…" The man replied, in almost flawless Russian, his hands gripping the hilt of his katana tightly, "…That the Reaper has come for him…" The Reaper finished, drawing his katana, and with a flash of his blade, he decapitated her, her head fell to the floor with a sickening thud, her body fell soon after; a look of shock was plastered on her face. He picked up her head, and examined it, his smile fading. She had been too young to be working with the mob; she probably didn't even know how to use her gun. He dropped her head back to the concrete floor, and drew his other katana, walking slowly into the center of the warehouse. Anyone who worked with the Soviets was an enemy of the Reaper, and if you crossed him, the retribution was swift and severe. All these men would pay dearly, with their lives, before they could inflict anymore fatalities upon the town of his birth.

The Reaper walked calmly into the center of the warehouse. In the center of the room stood a heavily armed guard of 10 Soviet soldiers, garbed in full combat gear, and 15 gangsters, clad in dinner suits, stood around two men, one of them was a lieutenant of the Red Army, the other was the infamous leader of the Tatyana crime family, Josef Tatyana, who was observing the rather large crate of weapons that lay in front of him, the ordnance ranged from uzis to rocket launchers. The Reaper smiled, this would be a great haul for the Rebels, if he managed to pull it off. This was the last favor he had to do for his Mob friend and confidant, Marissa Vasily, who had paid for the surgery that had given him his sight back. And he would willingly do it, for the young lady had been his only friend he had ever had in his entire life. He owed her so much.

The Reaper clanked the blades of his katanas together loudly and shouted at the top of his lungs. "…Josef Tatyana, you are guilty of betraying the Vasily crime family for the U.S.S.R.; the punishment for your actions is…Death!" He finished, bolting toward his latest victim.

He was cut off by a storm of hot lead that was flung at him from both the soldiers and gangsters; the Reaper vaulted out of the way and darted toward his nearest opponent, a gangster wielding a pair of revolvers. The criminal fired repeatedly at the mercenary, who evaded every slug that was shot at him. The Reaper leapt into the air and buried his katanas into the criminal's forehead; he then leapt behind his kill, and used him as a human shield, his corpse jerking as it was riddled by bullets of many different calibers. The Reaper pulled his katanas out of the his first kill's forehead, and flung one of them into the gullet of a Soviet soldier who was unloading an assault rifle at him, the man fell backwards, instantly slain.

The Reaper flung his first victim into the arms of another gangster, and ran that man through, leaving his katana in his gut as he stole the gangster's guns. He gunned down two more, before he was forced to take cover behind a stack of crates, the deadly rounds striking the thick wood of the crates, sending splinters of wood flying in every direction as the bullets struck. When the volley of slugs had subsided, he stood up and unleashed a deadly barrage of lead with the pair of uzis he had taken moments before; he slaughtered six more adversaries with exact shots to the torso, skull and the stomach.

Tossing the spent uzis to the ground, the Reaper sprinted over to his next victims, pulling his katana out of the Soviet's throat as he ran. He lunged, ramming his blade into the heart of another Soviet, and tore it out of his torso, decapitating another ill-fated thug in the process. The Reaper slammed another thug into the ground with an axe kick, and his fist collided with the nose of a Soviet soldier shattering it and sending splinters of bone into his brain, killing him instantly.

His gaze shifted to his next victims, the 15 survivors of his offensive, who had looks of sheer terror on their faces, their guns shook violently in their hands. He smirked, he knew exactly what would cause these cowards to piss their pants, and he smirked wickedly as he picked up an assault rifle and slowly cocked it. Then he let out a mad cackle, and got the desired effect. The rest of the guards scattered, running all over the interior of the warehouse, screaming bloody murder; a couple of them smacked into the walls, knocking themselves out.

The Reaper chuckled as he dropped the rifle and picked up his second katana, he spun around and walked toward Don Josef Tatyana, who was cowering near the crate, his head hidden under his hands; the Soviet lieutenant was nowhere to be found, apparently the coward had fled when the battle started.

"Damn…" He muttered. The Reaper sighed inwardly; he would have to track down the bastard later. Right now, he had more important things to take care of. He turned back to the cowering mob boss before him, and smirked again. He loved his job. The Reaper pulled the mob boss into a kneeling position.

"…Any last requests?" The Reaper inquired, placing the edge of his katana against the Don's neck. The Don looked up at him.

"Burn in hell!" He screamed the Reaper's smirk faded.

"…So will you." He replied, grasping a tuft of the Don's hair, and stooping down so that the Reaper could whisper in his ear. "Remember: to always fear the Reaper." He finished, slitting Josef Tatyana's throat, and letting go of his head, letting his corpse fall to the cold, hard concrete.

The Reaper cleaned his katanas on the former Mob boss' carcass, and sheathed them with a flourish. "Time to call in the pick up…" He muttered, heading for the door, stepping over the corpses of his victims as he walked.

"Vemar Izuho, a.k.a. The Reaper. Parents killed in a Soviet air raid at five years of age. Has been killing my men ever since, from Yugoslavia to China, you have left a trail of bodies and we have followed and have finally found the notorious 'Reaper.' Slayer of all Soviets." Vemar turned around slowly to find the lieutenant standing atop a crate, his pistol trained on him.

Vemar's eyes narrowed as he stared at the lieutenant. "…You're alone?"

"Oh, no," The lieutenant replied, raising his free hand. 10 bulky soldiers emerged from the shadows behind the lieutenant, each armed with a minigun, which looked like it belonged on the turret of a helicopter; "do you think those were my only men I had brought to guard me? I am always prepared, Vemar."

Vemar growled, the odds were against him, if he didn't come up with a strategy very quickly, he would be made into mincemeat by those turret guns. His eyes darted from soldier to soldier; all of the men looked like they could handle firing a burst from their guns.

"Goodbye, Vemar Izuho." The lieutenant said, letting his hand drop, the soldiers cocked their turret guns. The barrels of the miniguns began to spin rapidly, preparing to fling a storm of hot lead that could cut through a tank.

Vemar drew his blades, and gave them a quick twirl, before he pointed a menacing finger at the lieutenant. "…You won't stand a chance against me..." He said threateningly; if he went down fighting…he'd take that lieutenant with him.

"Defiant to the end." The lieutenant said, snapping his fingers. The gunmen all took a step back and readied themselves for the kick of their massive guns. The Reaper sighed; this is the last mistake he would never make again, always kill the Soviet first.

Suddenly the boom of a rifle echoed throughout the building, and a Soviet soldier crumpled, his gun clattered to the floor. "What the hell!" Another shouted in Russian, turning the barrels of his minigun upwards, only to be taken out a second later by a second rifle blast. Then a third soldier dropped to the floor, an exit-wound the size of an apple in his the back of his head.

Vemar shifted his gaze to the rafters, and saw his rescuer, standing on the catwalk above the room, raining fire down upon the Reaper's enemies. He was wearing a tan trench coat and a black cowboy hat.

"Woohoo! Come and get it while it's still hot!" Irvine Kinneas shouted, placing the crosshairs on the head of another enemy and squeezing the trigger, dropping him instantly. Five more enemies appeared out of the darkness. "Shit!" Irvine shouted, as they turned their guns on him, and pulled the triggers.

A monstrous storm of lead erupted from the miniature Gatling guns, tearing through anything in its path. Irvine dashed as fast as he could, the gunfire nipping dangerously at his heels. He spotted a steel door in front of him and shouted, bringing his rifle up to bear. "Squall, Zell, you're up!" Irvine blew the door open with a single round from his rifle and dove through it, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets that would have claimed his life.

Squall looked at Zell, who nodded. The two men leap over the edge of the catwalk, and landed on the ground below. Squall Leonhart drew his Gunblade and ran a Soviet through, drawing his blade out, he shot another point blank in the face, obliterating the Soviet's skull, and then Squall turned around and began hacking away at another Soviet, who was blocking his blows with his minigun. Squall lobbed the soldier's hand off, causing him to drop his minigun, and then stabbed; his blade entered the soldier's chest and the point of his Gunblade collided with his heart, killing him almost instantly.

Zell Dincht sprinted over to a Soviet who was about to pump him full of lead, the martial artist leapt into the air, and brought his fist down on the gun, knocking it out of the Soviet's hands, then he sent the soldier flying with an uppercut, the soldier crashed into a wall and fell to the floor, dead. He targeted his next victim and sprinted towards him, ducking under a barrage of bullets from the Soviet's minigun, and the shorter man began to punch him rapidly in the gut, then he kneed him in the gut, and then Zell brought his fist down, slamming the Soviet's head into the concrete.

"…Let me join you." Vemar said as he flung himself back into the fray. He sauntered towards the Lieutenant, seemingly unaware of the battle raging around him; a Soviet soldier stepped in front of him, minigun ablaze. The Reaper leapt into air, avoiding the lethal salvo of bullets, he landed onto the Soviet soldier's shoulders, and drove his katana through the top of his head, the other end of the blade exited out of his chin.

Vaulting off his latest kill, he continued walking toward the lieutenant, a small smirk forming over his face. The lieutenant was looking terrified at this moment as the 'Slayer of all Soviets' approached him, a bloody katana in his hand.

"Penance can't absolve your sins." Vemar said, quietly, and then he suddenly vanished, disappearing in a whirl of his silvery cloak. The lieutenant panicked, looking around for the mercenary, who had seemingly vanished into mid-air.

All of a sudden he felt cold steel against his throat, the blade of a katana pressing harder against his throat, drawing blood. "…Where's Tatarin?"

"You'll never find General Tatarin!" The Soviet lieutenant coughed, "you'll…N-never find him, but he'll find you and your filthy rebel associates!" Vemar spun him around and shot him a glare that would have frightened the bravest of men to the point of fainting.

"Never talk about the Rebellion you Soviet pig!" He roared, irately. He then slashed seven times, and began to sheath his sword. When the hilt of his blade clicked against its scabbard, the Soviet lieutenant fell into seven different pieces. Vemar jumped down from the crate, and drew his other blade out of the Soviet soldier's head, and sheathed it with a flourish.

He turned to Zell, who was walking up to him, a curious look in his eyes. "Where'd you learn to fight?" He asked, staring at him.

"..." Vemar stood silently, his breath ruffling the fabric of his scarf, his mismatched eyes staring down at the floor.

"Hello?"

"…"

"You don't talk much do ya?"

Vemar looked up when he heard the first floor door open, and saw Irvine enter, rifle slung over his shoulder. "…That was some fine shooting." He said, extending his hand.

"Thanks." Irvine replied, shaking Vemar's hand. Zell looked on curiously as he watched Irvine whisper something into Vemar's ear; the Reaper let out a rare laugh and said, turning to Zell and patting him on his shoulder.

"Good ass kicking…Chickie." Zell's curious look suddenly turned to a furious glare as he lunged at Vemar, only to be held back by Irvine, who was having trouble keeping a hold on the struggling martial artist. Vemar only smirked and strolled over to Squall, who was leaning against a shelf, his eyes closed apparently deep in thought.

Squall opened his eyes and nodded as Vemar approached, who also nodded; the two of them were men of few words.

"Squall!" Vemar turned to see a young woman running towards Squall, a dog following close behind her. Squall rolled his eyes, and sighed quietly as he pushed away from the shelf, walking towards the girl.

"…Rinoa..." He said, rather quietly asRinoa embraced him in a hug, Angelo stood near their feet, his tongue lolling out of his mouth; Squall returned the hug stiffly, giving Vemar a look that stated quite plainly: 'Please free me from this torment.' The Reaper's smirk grew even wider behind his scarf; he was holding back the urge to laugh at Squall's predicament.

"And who might you be?" The Reaper turned to find Quistis Trepe staring intently at him, her blue eyes studying him, gathering all the information she could about the Reaper.

"I should be asking you that same question." Vemar retorted, smiling behind the red fabric of his scarf.

"Quistis Trepe," Quistis said, extending her hand, Vemar shook it, "now that you know me, would you please tell me your name?"

Vemar sighed deeply. "…Does it really matter? Listen," he said, as he began to walk back toward the exit door, "we've got to get you and whoever the fuck your friends are out of here."

"Why?" Irvine asked, overhearing the conversation.

The Reaper looked at the marksman. "…The Reds'll get us…"

"Who?" Rinoa asked, jumping into the conversation.

"You-" Vemar began but was cut off by a ringing noise, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his small, silver cell phone; flipping it open he spoke into the receiver. "Yeah? Uh, huh, hmm," he said, his gaze shifted back to Quistis, "…alright, will do, get back to H.Q.," suddenly the sounds of gunfire could be heard on the other end of the line, followed by some screaming, "Saint? Saint…? What's going on? SAINT?" He finished, yelling into the phone as the line went dead.

"Who's the Saint?" Seifer asked, just arriving inside the building.

"Where were you?" Rinoa inquired.

"About."

"…Fuck…" Vemar mumbled, dropping his phone back into his pocket. He turned to the others. "Move out."

"I'm not-" Seifer began but was instantly silenced by the glare that the Reaper shot him.

"I said: move out." And with that, The Reaper walked outside, back onto the streets of hell that he grew up on. Shortly after he exited the warehouse, the exterior of its structure was full of even more bullet holes, the rest of the group followed, Seifer and Zell muttering darkly about Vemar. Like he would care.

A/N: Thank god in heaven! Stick a fork in Chappie 2 'cause its done! Alright I'm taking a break; the next Chappie'll be up in a week or two. Remember submit your OCs and I'll bring 'em to life, thanks. DemonDoor, I hope I portrayed Vemar to your liking. PEACE OUT!

T.L.


	3. The Soviet Butcher

Final Fantasy: The War to End All Wars, Chap. 3

A/N: So many reviews, so little time…Lol. Three more people have joined in the resistance! Pink Chocobo 13, NightmareShadow and Resha-988, I bid you welcome. Your OCs sound excellent, interesting personalities, pasts and such. The latest OCs are: Mattheis Hiashin a.k.a. Bleeding Phoenix, (Pink Chocobo 13), Damien Nocturne a.k.a., Shadow Assassin, (NightmareShadow), and Cecilia Silverberg a.k.a., The Fallen Angel, (Resha-988). I'm still having Matt introduce the FFX cast, Damien or Cecilia may be accompanying him on that mission, but that's next Chappie. One of them will be making an appearance in this Chappie though, it will be revealed to my readers soon.

Anyway, now this chapter flings us back with Saint 'n' Company, still making their way back to the Rebel H.Q. This Chappie shall introduce a formidable adversary that has claimed many Rebel lives, plus the Soviet's secret to taking over the world, and it reveals a little secret about my OC. I'm not gonna tell you what it is so you'll have to read to find out. Alright, with my rambling done, I'll start up the Chappie. Read and Review people!

Note: I'm getting tired of saying this. If I portray any FF characters or OCs incorrectly, please notify me and I will rectify the problem. Thank you.

Chapter III

The Soviet Butcher

Saint watched quietly as Cloud prodded the fire with a stick, trying to coax more life out of the dying flames. The group had stopped around four in the morning, which had been about an hour ago; most of Cloud's companions had been exhausted, and almost immediately fell into a deep slumber; with the exception of Cloud, Vincent and himself, who had remained up on watch.

The three men were basically bored out of their skulls; their watch had been pretty uneventful, except for when Vincent had accidentally shot a squirrel that had ran in front of the trio. After four fits of raucous laughter from Cloud and Saint, and being told to 'Shut up, by the rest of the group, the men had returned to watching the trees quietly, looking out for anymore 'killer' squirrels.

Saint yawned loudly, rubbing his eyes sleepily with his hands. "Hey, Cloud."

Cloud stopped poking the fire for a moment, and looked at Saint. "Yeah?" He asked.

"What's your story?" Cloud and Vincent glanced at each other, and then sighed.

"…You're gonna find this hard to believe…" Vincent said, quietly.

Saint shifted his gaze to the gunman, smiling politely. "Try me."

Cloud sighed again and reluctantly began to relate their story to Saint, who listened intently. Cloud told Saint of his and his companion's tale of constant battles, death, and treachery, from the very beginning, where Cloud had participated in the destruction of Mako reactor 1, laughing at the part when Cloud had been forced to dress up as a woman, and scowling darkly when Sephiroth killed Aeris, Cloud told his story all the way to the ultimate clash with the crazed swordsman, Sephiroth. Saint scratched at the stubble which was beginning to grow upon his chin, he hadn't shaved in a day or two; Saint turned his gaze to the fire.

"Why…well, a better question: How'd you crash here?" Saint inquired, not taking his gaze from the dying fire.

"To be truthful…I don't know." Cloud said, shrugging. "All I know is that we had defeated Sephiroth, and were on our way back to rebuild Midgar, when one of the WEAPONS, Emerald, I think, blasted us with a huge laser beam. And suddenly, poof, we were here and about to crash-land onto your planet." He finished, emphasizing 'poof' by snapping his fingers.

"I have no idea how we survived, but we were… fortunate." Vincent added, seriously.

Cloud glanced at Vincent, and then turned his attention back to Saint. "Yeah… hey, we told you our story, you tell us yours." Cloud requested, hoping that he would uncover a secret about the mysterious man. Saint glanced at Cloud, and the young mercenary swore that he could see sadness in those usually cheerful eyes.

"…My story… is one for another time," Saint responded, his attention returning to inspecting the remnants of the fire. Cloud cocked an eyebrow at this and was about to insist that Saint tell them, when said individual raised a hand to silence him. "I'll tell you as much as I know about the world, but that's it." He said, turning to look at Cloud's curious face, while Vincent's remained as impassive as ever.

"It all started about, I think somewhere in the neighborhood of 100 to a 150 years ago, not too sure though, no one is anymore." Saint began, shrugging sheepishly. "A man named Sergei Radomir gained power in Russia; he reenlisted the Communist government of the Soviet Union and became the sole dictator of the U.S.S.R., Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, he was a fairly kind ruler, (even though he did have random people murdered on occasion)… Then it went all wrong… really wrong, he had a son, Mikhail," Saint said angrily, his right hand twitched slightly as he continued his narrative.

"The day his son turned 30 years old, we believe sometime in 2125, Sergei died 'mysteriously', leaving Mikhail at the helm of the Soviet Union. Then all hell broke loose, Mikhail attacked the world with the Red Army." Saint continued, angrily. "At first, it didn't go so well for the U.S.S.R., they kept losing ground, but then a Spanish scientist made a ground-breaking discovery…" Saint hesitated.

"What? What was it?" Cloud questioned, the curiosity eating away at him.

"…They figured out how to make clones…" Saint replied, solemnly. Cloud's eyes widened and his mouth fell open.

"Wha…?" Cloud asked, his curiosity replaced by horrible memories of North Crater.

"Clones, man, fucking clones, something from those Sci-fi movies I watch…occasionally," Saint said, sounding slightly embarrassed. "Anyway, the U.S.S.R. immediately confiscated the scientist and his machine, and by confiscated I mean: kidnapped. And began putting it to use, soon after Mikhail found out that there was a defect in the cloning process."

"…What's that?" Vincent asked.

"Death." Saint replied, simply. "Death, but with each man, and woman that was murdered, 10 more were created," Saint began to roll up the left sleeve of his trench coat, "of course, they had to keep track of the ones that they had harvested from other countries." Saint said, holding his left arm out in front of him, branded into the flesh of his left forearm was a set of numbers, 756478.

"Ouch…" Cloud muttered, disgustedly, Saint smirked.

"Trust me, the smell was much worse." Saint replied, shaking his arm so that the sleeve fell back into place. "The first digit of my 'brand' states that I hail from Italy, the seventh country to fall after Mikhail's war of the world, and as you can plainly see, I was not cloned." Saint concluded his smirk fading.

"How did they supply these clones?" Cloud asked, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"With more clones, of the…bovine variety." Saint replied, chuckling. He drew a pack of cigarettes from his coat's pocket; he pulled a cancer-stick out with his teeth, and lit up. He took a long draw on his Marlboro, and exhaled, blowing out the smoke. "Anyway, the very first clones hit the front lines in…2138. And well, 62 years later, here we are, the Rebels, the last resisters of the Soviet tyranny and we… are… losing."

"So, how long you been in this…'Rebellion', kid?" A gruff voice asked from behind them. Saint turned around to see Cid walking towards the trio, his arms stretched out above his head.

"Two years." Saint replied. "But I've seen more combat than a lot of people." He added, seeing the smug grin on Cid's face.

Cid shook his head, as he drew a match box from his pocket, and asked: "Got anymore? Fresh out." Knowing that he meant cigarettes, Saint tossed the packet of Marlboros into Cid's awaiting hand. "Thanks, kid." Cid said, taking a seat by 'Vampy-Boy' and lighting up.

"So, from what I hear, you nicks aren't doin' so well." Cid began, taking a long draw on his smoke, "how many of ya are left?"

Saint's face darkened considerably. "We…had over 500 cadets, now we're down to 200, 30 Special Forces members, 15 are still alive and five Elites." He replied, his expression one of suppressed fury and remorse, which could now easily be seen, because the morning sun had just begun to creep over the horizon, casting a radiant orange glow over their campsite.

"Elites?" Vincent asked, "Like SOLDIER?" Saint looked at Vincent, and nodded.

"Yeah, sorta like SOLDIER." He said, quietly. "If you are wondering where I fit in, I am one of the five Elites, or (heh, heh) as we're more commonly known: The Five Horsemen of the Apocalypse." He finished, smiling. Cid snickered.

"…The Five Horsemen…" He muttered, shaking his head. Cloud cocked a quizzical eyebrow at Cid, sighed and turned back to Saint.

"So what are the names of these 'Horsemen'?" He asked, curiously.

A look of sudden horror dawned on Saint's face. "Oh, hell, I have to check in with them." He said, drawing a cell phone from his trench coat pocket. He flipped the small device open, dialed a series of numbers, and then he lifted the phone to his ear. After listening to a soft thrumming sound on his phone, he heard it click as someone answered it and then nothing.

"Damien? That you?" Saint spoke into the cell phone calmly. "Press a button if it's you." Saint heard the beep of a button being pressed.

"Good." Saint replied, the Fourth Horseman, Damien Nocturne, although a great Rebel fighter, hardly ever spoke. "Hey, Damien, could you put Matt on?"

A couple of seconds later, Saint heard the young, cheery voice of Mattheis Hiashin answer. "Yello?"

"Hey, Matteo!"

"I told you to never call me that." Saint laughed.

"Oh, come on, Matteo! Where's your sense of humor?"

"In my other pants." Matt replied, flatly on the other end of the line. Saint laughed again, and then said, a smile on his face.

"Hey, Matteo, I got a favor to ask ya."

"Stop calling me Matteo and I'll agree to anything."

"Alright then, _Matt_, do this for me."

"What?"

"If you see any odd looking people," Saint glanced over his shoulder at Vincent, who was conversing quietly with Cloud and Cid, "bring 'em back to base, kay?"

Saint could almost see the Fifth Horseman smiling. "Alright, Capi-tan." Saint shut his phone, and then reopened the silver device, and quickly dialed another set of numbers. Lifting his phone to his ear he heard the Second Horseman's stern, cold voice answer.

"Yeah?"

"Hey, Vemar, I got a favor to ask ya." The Reaper only grunted on the other side of the line.

"See any odd looking people, bring back to H.Q. will ya?"

"…Alright, will do, get back to H.Q." Saint was about to reply when something caught his attention.

His mouth dropped open; his face was a mask of pure fright as his cellular phone slipped from his right hand, and his other hand reached for one of his guns. Cloud noticed Saint's horrified look over Vincent's shoulder, and followed his gaze to the thing which was scaring the living hell out of Saint, and immediately reached for the Ultima Weapon.

A tall, hulking machine stood before the group, its blazing red eye was surveying the trio beginning with Vincent, Cloud and then Cid, slowly examining each one of them closely. Its skin was made of pieces of steel varying in size, giving off the impression that it is a Frankenstein monster, only crafted from metal. A large number of piping sprouted from the small of its back, and branched out to its ankles and wrists. Atop its broad shoulders sat a pair of Russian RPGs, each rocket launcher turned slowly back and forth, pointing at each of the Highwind survivors. Then its single, menacing eye settled upon Saint.

"Saint, true identity: unknown. First Horseman of the Rebels, threat: minimal, orders are to exterminate subject on sight." It said, its voice, cold and lifeless as it brought back its right arm. Saint dove out of the way as the machine buried its massive fist into the earth. The first Horseman drew his pistols, a pair of silver 45. Colts and poured hot lead into the mechanical monstrosity's back.

The Machine climbed back to its full height, ignoring the rounds that were peppering its metallic skin and turned back towards the 1st Horseman. "RUN!" Saint shouted as he clambered to his feet, still firing. "RUN, DAMN IT! IT HASN'T REGISTERED YOU AS A THREAT YET, RUN!" Saint screamed, over the gunfire as he slowly backed away from the advancing monstrosity of metal, whose one and only objective was to slay the First Horseman.

They weren't running, and apparently, they were going to try to fight the Machine. And Saint could not allow that to happen, it would be such a waste to lose these recruits. He took one last look at the survivors of the Highwind, and leapt into the undergrowth at a full sprint, the Machine followed after him, its massive feet trampling the foliage as it pursued its prey.

As Saint ran, he discarded the almost spent clips and slapped two more into the guns, cocked them, and fired off a few rounds back at the Machine. It continued to pursue him, not even noticing the rounds that struck it, dead-on, in the chest. Saint darted to the left to avoid a rather large oak, and stopped a few yards away from the oak for a moment, looking back at the Machine.

He watched as the Machine came to the tree, and batted it out of its way with a swing of its mighty arm, tearing the tree from its roots with a resounding 'rrrrrriiiipppp!' So the rumors were true, this thing did hit like a Mac truck, snapping out of his musings, Saint ran for his life. The Machine, or as it was called by him and his kind: a 'Soviet Butcher' gave chase.

Saint saw the light that signified the edge of the forest, and ran for it. He leapt from the tree line, rolling on the concrete of the forsaken highway; he came to a stop on his side, both of his pistols trained on the edge of the forest. Suddenly he saw something soar into the air, Saint rolled out of the way as the Soviet Butcher's fist collided with the concrete, leaving a small crater in the pavement. He leapt to his feet and trained his pistols on the Butcher's head and pulled the triggers.

The rounds clanged harmlessly off of the Machine's head, causing little or no harm at all. The Butcher clambered to its feet, and turned to Saint. Saint's hands did their trick as the Machine stalked ever closer to the young Rebel, its hand balling into a fist. Then suddenly Saint heard the most horrific sound of them all, the 'click!' of a dry gun. He cursed himself for not bringing more ammo, and tossed his prized pistols to the ground.

Reaching into his coat, Saint withdrew a silver cross from the confines of his trench coat. He smirked as he pressed a small switch in the center of the crucifix. "Back to Hell, you scum." Saint growled ominously as he gripped the cross tighter in his hands, the Butcher, unabated, kept slowly walking towards him, a menacing gleam in its single red eye. A curved blade slowly emerged from the cross, and it locked into position, forming a katana with the hilt fashioned out of a crucifix. Giving the sword a quick twirl, Saint rushed the Butcher, letting out a mad battle-cry.

Saint slashed downward. The Butcher reacted quickly, raising its arm; it warded off the katana blow and lashed out with its other arm. Saint ducked under the blow, and struck back with his katana, catching the Machine in the stomach, leaving a long horizontal gash in its gut. The Butcher looked down at its wound, then back up at Saint, then back down at its injury. "Aw, snap…" Saint groaned, as the machine looked back up at him. With a soft whirring of ball bearings, the two rocket launchers trained themselves on Saint. He took two steps back, and then, for the second time that day, ran for his life.

Saint was about twenty feet away from the Butcher, when time seemed to slow to a crawl as the Machine staggered backward from the force of the rockets being let off from their launchers. The rockets homed in on their target, spiraling through the air towards the First Horseman. They moved ever closer to their target, nipping dangerously at his heels. "Let's fight fire with fire." Saint muttered, unclipping a grenade from his belt. He tore the pin off with his teeth and cooked the frag grenade. When he judged the time was right, he tossed it behind him and flung himself to the ground.

A massive explosion ensued, sending shards of shrapnel in every direction, cutting through the dense undergrowth and imbedding itself into the concrete. After the dust cleared, Saint climbed to his feet with the help of his katana. He turned to see the Soviet Butcher bolting towards him; its 'skin' was smoking, leaving long spiraling trails of smoke in its wake. Saint sidestepped the blow and slashed again, leaving a vertical gash in its back, the wound erupted in a shower of sparks.

The Butcher lurched forward from Saint's attack, but quickly regained its balance, turned, and retaliated with an unbelievably fast punch, which caught Saint in the gut, and sent him flying. He hit the concrete of the forgotten highway with a sickening thud, and bounced once, twice, and a third time before he hit the highway and laid there. Saint climbed onto his hands and knees, his right hand involuntarily went to his lips, and he coughed violently into it. Once Saint's coughing fit had subsided, he looked at his right palm. It was smeared with his blood.

A fury coursed throughout Saint's form, and he stood up, ignoring the agonizing pain that lanced up and down his entire form, (he suspected the Butcher's blow had broken a few ribs, which had punctured a couple of organs, but he didn't care, if he was going to bite it here, he'd take that Butcher with him), he wiped the blood from his lips, and spat out some more of the red liquid. He looked up at the Butcher, whose fiery eye betrayed no hint of human emotion.

The Butcher watched as Saint walked towards it, stopped, bent down, and picked up his fallen katana with his right hand. He hefted it over his shoulder; his face contorted in a mask of excruciating pain, and glared daggers at the Butcher. "Do you submit, First Horseman? You know who will be the victor, submit and accept your fate." The Butcher spoke in its cold, metallic tone, as it took a giant step towards Saint, the pavement cracking under its weight.

Saint shook his head and put on a painful smile. "I still got one more Ace up my sleeve." He replied, and his left hand was a blur as it shot inside of his coat, and drew a Colt Python .357 magnum revolver in a flash. Saint raised the gun with one hand, a sent a round straight into the Butcher's chest, tearing a large jagged hole in the steel, it was knocked back a few feet, the Machine regained its balance, only to meet another round to its knee, which forced down onto one knee.

Saint approached the Butcher, his Colt Python slid out of his left hand as it went numb, he didn't have much time left. He summoned what strength remained and swung his katana into its neck, decapitating it; sparks flew out of the severed electrical lines that served as the Machine's arteries. Flipping his katana so that it pointed towards the open neck, Saint drove it deep into the body of the Machine, destroying its central processing core and ending its existence.

The machine fell backward onto the concrete, dead; its colossal bulk caused the concrete to fracture, leaving small fissures in the black pavement.

"The only good Soviet is a dead one…" Saint muttered as he stumbled backward. He took a few more steps, and then fell to his knees. Using the last vestiges of strength left in his battered body he drew from his bandana, a small rectangular device with a red switch in the center. He pressed the button and raised it to his bloodied lips.

"First Horseman…in need…of…assistance…send…medivac…to…near…Palmero…Italy." He spoke into the device, panting heavily.

"Ellen…help me, sis…" He muttered, incoherently as he dropped the gadget to the concrete, the switch in the center blinking red. Moments later he too fell to the concrete, his breathing slowing. His eyes began to shut, causing the world to go hazy.

"Saint!" A voice shouted from seemingly thousands of miles away. It was a woman's voice, and Saint could dimly make out a group of seven people running towards him, the First Horseman's eyes slowly closed and Saint descended into the world of shadows. He wondered if this would be his final resting place…he hoped not.

Cloud and Company bolted toward Saint, weapons at the ready in case anymore Mechanical monsters decided to attack. Cloud came to a halt and kneeled down by the prone gunslinger. "MEDIC!" Cloud shouted at the top of his lungs as he checked Saint's pulse, which was gradually fading. "Somebody cast Life 2!" Cloud shouted, imbedding his sword into the concrete of the deserted highway, and then he clapped his hands together and held them above Saint's still form, a sparkling green light twisted and curled around Saint, as Cloud cast Cure on him.

"Move Spike!" Cloud turned to see Yuffie; their resident medic after Aeris had died, running towards him and Saint. This seemed to shock everybody, as it appeared that the only thing Yuffie cared for was her precious materia. Cloud quickly backed up as Yuffie knelt down beside Saint. A blinding light surrounded Saint's still form, causing the survivors of the Highwind to cover their eyes from the incredible radiance. (A/N: I don't know what Life 2 looks like, just to let you know.)

When the brilliance had diminished, Cloud and Company lowered their arms. Yuffie fell backward onto her rear, dazed, the brilliant flash of light had stunned her. Tifa was the first to step forward; she picked up the blinded ninja and carried her to the back of the group, where she administered a vial of Eye Drops on her eyes.

After the rest of the group had recovered, Cloud issued orders, being the leader and all. "All right, Tifa, Red, Cait Sith, and Yuffie, look after Saint, get some supplies if you can. Barret, Vincent, Cid and I will keep an eye on that thing over there." Cloud finished, inclining his head towards the Soviet Butcher's…uh…carcass, yeah, carcass sounds good. The gang nodded, and went about their assigned tasks.

As the day wore slowly on, the group set up camp on the side of the road, in the shadow of the trees. Tifa, Yuffie and Red took care of Saint, addressing his wounds with curative materia. Vincent and Cid went hunting; they returned a couple of hours later, looking battered and exhausted, sticks and twigs stuck in their hair. Everyone tried to hold in their laughter, trying not to incur the wrath of the pilot except Barret, who burst out laughing at the first sight of Cid, clearly trying to aggravate him, which in turn, caused a wave of violent cursing so profound that it even surprised the leader of AVALANCHE.

Night unfolded faster than Cloud's group had expected and the group bunked down for the night, keeping watch in shifts. Around midnight, Cloud and Barret exchanged watch duties. Barret sighed heavily as he surveyed the surrounding landscape, he couldn't stop worrying about Marlene, and how was she doing without him? Had anyone hurt her? If they did, when he got back from wherever-the-fuck this place is, there would be hell to pay.

"Don'tcha worry Marlene…," Barret muttered, seriously, "Papa will be home soon."

Barret yawned loudly. He rubbed his eyes sleepily; he wasn't used to night watch. He'd rather be in thick of it, gunning down his opponents; he was not used to all of this, 'waiting-for-the-enemy-to-attack' bullshit, as Cloud had said. He sighed and continued to glance up and down the road; then he noticed it. Well, rather heard it.

He stood up, ears perked to attract any sound, it sounded like a low rumbling…of what? He soon got his answer. "Tires…" Barret muttered. He pointed his Missing Score towards the origin of the rumbling, and waited, arm tensed, ready to fire. Then he saw it, a group of headlights cresting the hill, approaching their position fast.

Barret stood there, carefully aiming. Suddenly, a small stiletto imbedded itself into his arm. The burly man grunted in pain and pulled the knife out of his arm with his other hand and tossed it behind him. "WHERE THE FUCKS DID THAT COME FROM?" He screamed into the darkness, firing wildly into the trees surrounding their campsite. All of the sudden, Barret began to feel very sleepy.

"Marlene…I'm still…comin' home." He uttered unintelligibly as he collapsed.

"BARRET!" Tifa screamed, leaping out of her sleeping bag and running over to him. Cloud was on his feet in a moment; sword at the ready, so was the rest of AVALANCHE, weapons at the ready, eyes darting wildly about, searching for the culprit. As Tifa bent down to check Barret's pulse, she found that he was still alive.

She jumped back to her feet, and sprinted back to her blue sleeping bag, grabbing her gloves from inside it; she slipped them on and turned back around. She found herself staring into the most dazzling pair of sky blue eyes she had ever seen.

"Who are you?" She asked, threateningly, drawing her fist back to punch. Before she could do so however, the mysterious individual sprayed something into her face. Tifa immediately collapsed. The last thing she saw was a set of headlights approaching the campsite.

"…Cloud…I'm sorry." She murmured, sadly. What would become of her and her friends? What of Saint? Are these the Soviets he spoke of? These questions floated through her mind as her vision was clouded by swirling black smoke. She finally gave in and slipped into unconsciousness.


	4. Polar Opposites

Final Fantasy: The War to End All Wars, Chap. 4

A/N: Here it is folks, the final two Horsemen, Damien and Matt will be making their grand appearance in this Chappie! YAY! Lol. Also, we've got another 3 OCs in the resistance! They have interesting pasts in my opinion. The 3 newest OC's names are: Jun Yakushi a.k.a., The Vengeance, (Ichimonji), Jane Scott a.k.a., Hawkeye, (DemonDoor), and Cestmir Balin a.k.a. Garm, (Red Mage Neko).These three will be added very soon. But, they won't be members of the Horsemen, though; Jun will be the leader of the Special Forces group, whose name you'll find out later. Jane and Cestmir will be the weapon designers. These guys won't be making an appearance for the next couple of Chappies, though.

Oh, yeah, you better e-mail Pink Chocobo 13; she's doing the Fanart for this Fic. But she would like your permission to draw Vemar and Damien. Write her back quickly! And by the way, Resha-988, the color of the Soviet Union is red.

My rambling now done, I'll start the Fic! Oh! And any parentheses you see contain the translations of certain words and phrases, in case you didn't know. Besides the A/N.

Note: How many of you still want me to write this note-thingy? If I portray any FF characters or OCs incorrectly, please notify me and I will fix the problem. Thankee, sai.

Chapter IV

Polar Opposites

An airplane soared over the treetops of a massive French forest, which stood next to a precipice of stone, standing tall and impressive against the lush wood. The sun had not begun to shine its overly golden rays upon the landscape; night still had its starry cloak spread out over the world, even though the moon was slowly descending towards the horizon. The airplane banked upward, increasing its height by hundreds of feet per minute, its fixed wings cutting through the low hanging clouds, leaving long, spiraling trails in their wake.

Inside of the aircraft, two people sat across from each other. They bounced slightly when the plane hit turbulence, but they mostly sat stock still.

The first was a tall, rather athletic man, whose eyes were closed, apparently meditating. His long silver hair lay against his back, it was kept out of his eyes by a black headband, even though a few stray bangs still hung over his face. His torso was encased in night black plate mail, which was scratched and scarred, as if it had been through many battles, underneath, he wore a black bodysuit, which kept the armor from rubbing painfully against his chest. His black jeans had silver plate mail stitched onto the fabric; the hems of his jeans were tucked into his black steel-toed combat boots. His hands were sheathed in a pair of black gauntlets. Across his lap lay an enormous black broadsword, with many strange rune symbols adorning its surface, what the runes were for? Only he knows.

The second individual was much younger than the first, maybe around sixteen, who was bobbing his head lightly to some rock 'n' roll that blared from the headphones in his ears. His disheveled dark brown hair, which was streaked with red appeared to be spiked because of the pair of pilot's goggles that were strapped to his forehead. His face bore multiple scars, one on the bridge of his nose and two under each of his blue eyes. He was dressed in an old white T-shirt, a black blazer, (with its sleeves rolled up), that appeared to have seen too many battles for its own good, tattered black jeans, black fingerless gloves and black sneakers. A belt hung loosely about his waist, he had clipped the essentials onto it: a gray Ipod, a pair of knives, and a few hand grenades. Lying next to him on the seat was a rather interesting weapon. It resembled a long pole, with a pair of large, saw-like blades on each end that faced different directions; the cutting edges of his "double scythe" were stained with only recently dried blood.

A soft "beep" permeated the interior of the cabin, and the voice of their pilot broke the silence. "Nightmare Assassin, Bleeding Phoenix, get ready to rock 'n' roll. You'll be hittin' the Red base in five." He declared, and his announcement was ended with another quiet "beep". The 2nd individual, Bleeding Phoenix, stowed his headphones in a pocket of his blazer and looked over at his counterpart, smiling slightly.

"Damien, you ready?" He asked, already knowing the answer. The 1st, Damien, opened his eyes, revealing that they were of a blood red hue.

"…As always, Mattheis." Nightmare Assassin replied. Mattheis smiled.

"Three words, goin' for the record, Damien?" He joked. Damien smirked slightly, and then it was replaced by his usual expression of calm indifference.

"Perhaps…" He replied. Mattheis laughed at this.

"That's four, ladies and gentlemen, this is a day to take down in history, mark your calendars! Damien said four words!" Damien shook his head, a ghost of a smile flitting across his pale features and picked up a small sharpening stone that sat in the seat next to him, and began to sharpen his blade. Matt smiled and began to twirl one of his knives absentmindedly between his fingers. The pilot announced his presence again with another "beep".

"Damien, Matt, your mission is to rescue some new "students" from a Soviet reeducation facility." The Pilot began, casually, "As you can probably tell already, you will be parachuting onto the target, which currently resides about a good 1,000 feet below us, our radar jammer is still holding up, so we haven't been discovered and shot down…yet. So you'll have to make this fast, do you understand me?" He finished. "Or we shall incur the wrath of the Soviet Hellgun…" He added, worryingly.

The mention of the word "Hellgun" sent chills up and down Matt's spine. The artillery pieces that could annihilate entire armies in a single shot, he had heard rumors that there were only 8 left in the world, thanks to the Rebels. He looked over at Damien, who looked as impassive as ever, not a shred of fear in his eyes, Damien was one of the few people (who was still alive) left in the world who had seen the destructive power of the Hellguns and wasn't afraid of them, as far as he could tell, and Matt admired that about him.

As for Matt…the memory was still too ghastly for him to reflect on.

"H.Q. also asks that you destroy the Hellgun stationed here for good measure." The Pilot continued, causally. "Then you are to steal a Soviet transport and get your asses back to base, understand?" The Pilot paused for a moment. "Good, make sure the Soviets know it was the Resistance after you are done…cleansing the base, m'kay?" The Pilot's briefing ended, once again, with another "beep".

Damien laid his sword and sharpening rock aside, and pressed a switch with his thumb on the wall beside him, he was answered by a much louder "beep". "It will be done." He said, as he took his thumb off of the switch. The Pilot responded only by turning a knob on his console, which in turn, dropped a parachute onto both Damien and Matt's knees.

Damien stood up and shrugged his parachute on, and then he slung his sword across his back, as did Matt, but he held his Double-Scythe tightly in one gloved hand. The pair made their way over to the over to the large, sliding steel door that led to the outside of the aircraft. The Pilot announced himself for hopefully the last time. "Good luck and God speed, Horsemen…" He said, and pressed another switch.

The sliding steel door slid open and a powerful gust of air flung itself into the cabin, almost knocking the two Horsemen off their feet. Matt and Damien steadied themselves by grabbing hold of the doorframe and pulling, using the momentum of their pull, they flung themselves out of the airplane. The wind at a thousand feet was ferocious; it felt as if their arms and legs were going to be pulled out of their sockets at any second.

They plummeted towards the ground; their clothes billowed furiously in the high winds, the wind roared in their ears, blocking out all other sounds, Damien's hair trailed out behind him like a large silver banner. As they descended, they could make out the silhouette of the base atop the cliff, it was rectangular in shape, surrounded by a ten-foot high chain link fence, with a outcropping which probably held the infamous Hellgun, which was still concealed under a veil of darkness, the barracks were located next to the base itself, which was a small structure, constructed from steel, but both of the Horsemen knew that the true base had been constructed about a mile underground.

Apparently the Soviets were not too worried about someone attacking the base. Because no searchlights danced around the exterior of the base, hoping to spot some would-be intruders, machine-gun emplacements ready to cut them down as they neared. But, if an alarm was sounded, their entrance would be a lot more to difficult to pull off.

About 300 feet above the base, Damien and Matt gave their ripcords a swift tug, which released the parachutes from the confines of their bags. Their speedy descent was jerked to a snail's crawl, much to the complaints of Matt, whose young veins were still pumping with adrenaline of a sky-dive. Matt and Damien's sharp eyes kept watch on the base, just in case they had to free themselves from their main 'chutes, and use their reserves in order to avoid a Hellgun shell.

The pair drew ever closer to ground…and to the carnage that they would soon cause.

Meanwhile…Three Soviets stood in a close grouping, two of them easily seen by the lights of their cigarettes. They were chatting away about something, let us listen in...

The first soldier tossed his cigarette to the ground and rubbed it out with the toe of his boot. He then asked his two comrades in Russian, while adjusting his rifle that was strapped to his shoulder so that it was more comfortable. "Have you seen those new prisoners yet, Ivan, Mische?" They both nodded quickly.

"Yeah, they are pretty weird-looking fuckers aren't they, comrade?" Ivan said, taking a long draw on his cigarette. The one who had asked the question inclined his head slightly, the rank on his beret glimmering eerily in the light of his comrades' cigarettes, he was a Captain.

"And what's up with the big, blue cat?" Mische added, hoping not get hit. He winced when Ivan placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Good question, Mische, what do ya think, Anatoli?" Ivan asked. Anatoli, the captain, shrugged.

"I don't know, maybe the-." He stopped mid-sentence, and just stood there, Ivan cocked an eyebrow.

"Hey, sir, maybe they what?" Ivan asked, shaking Anatoli's right shoulder, and then something happened that would haunt him till the end of his days. As he shook Anatoli's right shoulder, a loud squelching sound emanated from him, and…he spilt straight down the middle, his left half fell to the ground with a sickening "thud", his right half stood because it still supported by Ivan's hand.

Ivan drew his hand away from Anatoli's halve as if he had been burnt, causing it to lose balance and fall to the ground with another sickening "thud". Mische doubled over and puked his guts out a few feet away from Ivan and Anatoli's corpse. "Mische," Ivan said, staring in absolute horror at Anatoli, who would do this to a Soviet soldier…he immediately knew.

"…Yeah… Ivan?" Mische asked, wiping the vomit from his lips. Ivan turned to him.

"Sound the alar-!" But Ivan was cut short as his torso was knocked away from his legs; it went flying about twenty feet away and hit the ground, bouncing one or twice as the momentum of its flight carried it across the ground. Mische stared in horror at Ivan's torso-less legs, which collapsed to its knees, and fell forward onto the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust.

Mische watched, transfixed, as blood pooled under Ivan's severed legs, then he tore his gaze away from the macabre sight. Looking upward, he saw a pair of red eyes staring evilly at him. The mere sight of those blood red eyes caused Mische to turn tail and run for his life, his entire being focused upon one objective: sounding the alarm. His goal was situated upon a support beam of a guard tower that was erected near the chain-link fence that surrounded the base.

He ran at full speed, fueled onward by his fear. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain lance throughout his body as his left shoulder jerked forward from the force of something striking it. He emitted a scream of pain that would have awoken the dead, and looked at his shoulder. A small knife had imbedded itself deep into his shoulder blade, rendering his left arm useless. Mische poured on the steam, his right hand pressed to his left shoulder, trying to stop his left arm from flopping wildly beside him. He looked up at his target, it was drawing nearer with every step, and Mische could make out the red button upon the support beam.

He reached his target without a second to spare. He took his right hand from his shoulder, balled it into a fist and slammed it down onto the alarm. Then, suddenly he went limp. Mische spun in a slow circle, revealing the second knife that had imbedded itself into the nape of his neck and collapsed onto the compacted dirt, his corpse kicking up a cloud of dust…

Matt sighed; it never ceased to amaze him at the cowardice of these soldiers, the least they could do is stand and fight. He shook his head, and went to retrieve his knives, but, then again, they didn't stand much of a chance against two of the Five Horsemen. Damien walked in step with Matt, wiping the blood of his two recent victims from his broadsword with a polishing cloth.

Matt knelt down beside the Soviet's corpse, and yanked his knife out of his neck, sheathed it, he then proceeded to wrench the other knife out, but it had imbedded itself deep into the bone of the corpse's shoulder blade, he was having a little more trouble. As Matt struggled to free his knife from the Soviet's shoulder, Damien's red eyes had been drawn to something peculiar.

A blinking red button, which was mounted on the leg of the guard tower, Damien cocked a quizzical eyebrow at it, he knew for a fact it wasn't a mine, nor was it one of those damned trip lasers that fried you alive if you tripped it. Damien's eyes widened in realization, it was one of those silent alarms, that Soviet must have activated it before he was slain by Mattheis.

"Mattheis…." Damien began, but he was cut short as Matt let out a cry of victory when he finally freed the knife from the corpse's shoulder. Damien cocked an eyebrow at Matt's small celebration, and then disregarded it as a teenage "thing". "You might want to shut up…"

"Why, Dam?" (A/N: Pronounced as "Dame".) Matt asked, curiously, as he stood up, he dusted himself off, and turned to "Dam".

_Dam…? What the fuck…?_ Damien thought, his mind absolutely boggled, then he shook his head, and thought, _teenagers, I'll never understand 'em…_"Because, we've got company…" Matt's cheerful face suddenly went grim, he stooped and picked up his scythe, and shouldered the arcane weapon. He cast a sideward glance at the Nightmare Assassin.

"How long?" He asked, coldly. Damien shrugged ever so slightly.

"A matter of minutes." Damien replied, quietly. He shouldered his sword, and his gaze was suddenly drawn to the blood that had pooled under the Captain's corpse…Damien suddenly grinned, and a low chuckle could be heard from him. He could feel some…old sensation course through his veins…he had an insatiable thirst, but he knew it wasn't for water…

"Blood…" Damien whispered his voice manic. His thirst increased tenfold in its intensity. His mouth was dry, and he was feeling the beginnings of a headache. He felt as a switch had been flipped inside of his skull, and the system that had been activated was slowly taking over. "Mattheis…" Damien began, looking up at the thoroughly freaked out Matt. "Find an air vent…get into the base… I shall deal with the ones who walk the earth…"

Matt nodded quickly, and replied with a meek: "Alright." He quickly turned on his heel, and bolted away from Damien, scared shitless. He knew this happened to Damien before almost every battle, but it always scared him…he had seen what Damien had done once when he had been in a state like this…and it was not pretty…

_Still…you have to admit when impaled that one guy upon that light pole…that was pretty damn cool…_Matt shuddered at the rather gruesome memory. He made his way towards the air vent, which he remembered from his studying of the map, even though Damien was going to get the larger kill, he knew their would be some Soviets guarding the prisoners.

_Well…I can still have some fun…_Matt mused, smirking evilly as he arrived at his objective. He drove his scythe into the grating of the air vent, and wrenched it away from its foundations. He grabbed hold of the top rung of the ladder that had been built into the wall of the air vent, and flipped himself into the vent, then he made his way down, he still had a long way to go…

Damien's sword hand began to tremble, the slaughter was close…he could sense it…He started off, giving into the pain of headache, which seemed to be trying to reactivate some latent ability…he had no idea what it could be… the outside world grew silent, and Damien could hear only the thumping of his heart as it pumped blood throughout his body, and the dull thudding of his headache…

He suddenly stopped, and let his sword slid off of his shoulder, and drop to the ground, creating a gash in the hard earth. He could distantly hear the sound of a Soviet officer speaking over a microphone, and his command, a squad or four of Soviet troopers. "Intrude…drop…all your…eapons…an…we…shall be merciful!" Damien replied only with a laugh, a manical one, filled with malice and foreboding.

He had been staring at the ground while the officer had tried to negotiate surrender…but now he looked up, and all that was once Damien Nocturne was gone replaced by a single desire: to spill blood. His laughter increased…and he replied, smiling manically. "Fo…f-for…" He could barely contain himself, his vision was turning a hazy red, and he needed to give in, just surrender to it, surrender to his bloodlust.

He managed to keep control over for a second longer, his eyes gleamed a brilliant crimson hue and he screamed, lifting his sword into the air.

"FOR THE SLAUGHTER!" And he gave in to the lust. Damien shouldered his sword again, and bolted forward. His movements could barely be tracked by the human eye, and to the Soviet soldiers before him, he seemed to be a blur of death fast approaching.

Damien slammed his sword into the ground, avoiding a monstrous hail of lead by mere inches, the force of his blow propelling him into the air. As he fell back to earth, he drove his great weapon into the chest of a soldier, when his feet touched the ground he flung him off of his blade, and decapitated three more Soviets with a mighty swing of his broadsword. Turning on his heel, his blade cutting a bloody arch through the air, he severed another Red's legs from his torso.

Damien cut another soldier asunder, and sidestepped a blow from Red who had been trying to spear him on the end of a bayonet, that soldier's face was introduced, rather rudely, to Damien's boot, the steel toe of his boot shattering the soldier's skull. Damien impaled two soldiers on his blade and relinquished his hold on the hilt of his blade, leaving the weapon lodged in their abdomens, as he relished in their dying screams, he then turned to face the survivors.

His vision swam with red, bloody red, his lust coursed through him, dark, hot, rich and free, it was intoxicating. He could feel his entire body shiver as he spilled blood, quake when he caused another death, and tremble when he laughed. This was how it was supposed to be, blood was supposed to flow hot and free, he didn't know why, but he felt at home, at peace for once in his life when he dealing death to the masses.

The first thing the remaining troopers noticed about the Great Destroyer, other than the fact that he was covered in the blood of his enemies, was the absolutely insane grin plastered upon his face, and the manic chuckling that was emanating softly from him. With a casual flick of his wrists, Damien unleashed his secondary weapons; a pair of long, silver blades slid out from the confines of his gauntlets, and locked into place, looking extremely menacing.

"Blood and Shadow…" Damien said, regarding his two blades as if they were close friends. "SERVE ME WELL!" He shrieked, as he dashing towards the remaining sixteen soldiers.

When he reached them, he drove the blade on his right arm into the chest of a soldier, his left blade entered the forehead of another Soviet, and he kicked the first soldier off his right blade, stabbed another, pulled his other blade out, and killed another Red by slashing his throat with his left blade. He brought his left leg up and slammed a Soviet into the ground with an axe kick, breaking his head in half.

As Damien snapped another Soviet's neck, his gaze shifted to the remaining 9 soldiers; his vision, almost completely blocked out by the red haze. Letting go of his kill, he lunged forward, he impaling two Soviets on his blades, ripped them out, decapitated a third with both of his gauntlet blades. Two more fell at the onslaught of his gauntlet blades, he took another's head with his elbow, and lastly, he kicked a Soviet in his shin, and, grasping his shoulder, he drove his right gauntlet blade into his abdomen.

The last soldier brought his rifle up to bear as Damien released his latest kill from his grasp and was about to pull the trigger when Damien raised his right arm, so that it was pointing at the attacking soldier and launched his gauntlet blade from his outstretched arm. The blade imbedded itself into the Soviet's throat; instantly killing him. His corpse was held upright by a thin stretch of cord that connected Damien's blade to his gauntlet, Damien jerked his hand upward, which withdrew his gauntlet blade from the soldier's neck, and the blade snapped back into its original place seconds later, covered in arterial spray.

Damien retracted his gauntlet blades, and walked over to the two soldiers that he had left his sword in, who were amazingly still standing upright, he extracted it from their guts, letting their carcasses fall to the ground. Damien looked at the carnage that surrounded him for a moment, and threw his head backwards and greeted the morning sky with bone-chilling laughter, scaring the birds from their roosts in the forest a mile away.

He was truly the Great Destroyer and he loved his job…with a passion… (A/N: Wow…dark…and gory…I hope you like that Nightmare Shadow, because if you don't…well…it's just too damn bad! Lol. Now this next part takes place right after Matt enters the air duct, so please, bear with me.)

Matt landed with a "clank" at the bottom of the air vent, and immediately cursed quietly at his audacity…someone would've heard that. A few tense moments went by while Matt stood there, crouched, his scythe poised to strike. He took a quiet step forward, still crouched mind you, and waited…then another step, then another, and finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, he reached the large door that lead out of the vent.

He cracked it open, and poked his head out into the hall, looking up and down the metal corridor, satisfied that he was alone; he stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him. He crept down the halls, slinking his way from shadow to shadow, trying to as quiet as humanly possible, which was extremely hard for this Horseman.

He absolutely _hated_ being quiet, or being pushed around for that matter…along with the cold, silence was the one thing Matteo could not stand! It was horrible…oh! Back to reality…Matt stopped at a corner, and peered around it. There stood two Soviets, obviously unaware of what was going on topside, chatting breezily about which one of their female prisoners had bigger…you know…jahoobies…

"Geez…"Matt muttered, rather loudly. "Are they all perverts?" Matt ducked back behind the corner, when one of Soviets looked to see what the noise was. Matt waited, ready to strike, like a cobra; he heard the clip-clopping of the Red's heavy boots nearing him. _NOW! _His mind screamed at him, he stepped out from around the corner and slammed his scythe blade into the stomach, catching the Red who had stayed behind off guard.

Matt pulled a grenade from his belt, and said, pulling out the pin. "Eat this, ikeike (bitch)." Matt finished, stuffing the active grenade into the dying Soviet's mouth. Matt, using all of his might, flung the Red off of his scythe, and onto his comrade, who had been lining up a shot moments before. Matt dove for cover as the grenade went off.

A wall of flame and shrapnel tore down the hall, nearly incinerating Matt as he dove for cover behind a nearby desk. "Kuso! (Shit!) That was close!" He muttered, as he poked his head out from behind the desk. _The party's just a starting, bitches…_Matt thought, as he vaulted over the desk, and began to run down the recently scorched hallway, making sure to step on the corpses of the Soviets he had killed.

He knew he was near the prison block, but how near? That is the question, my dear Brutus…he sighed, he had taken after Damien, who was currently reading Hamlet. Matt shrugged resignedly, and continued on; occasionally casting his gaze down another hallway to check what resided within it.

After about twenty minutes of this, he saw a sign stamped with Russian letters, now his Russian wasn't that good, but he could still say a few phrases like "where is the crapper?" or "I fucking hate you!" and finally "my name is Timothy." Why "Timothy"…? The world may never know… hell, I don't even know…

"Prisoner holding cells…jackpot bitches." Matt muttered, as he descended the steps that resided underneath the sign, venturing deeper into the bowels of the base…

"Rikku, have you opened the damn door yet?" An irritated Tidus asked, for somewhere around the tenth time. Rikku immediately stiffened, and set back to work on opening the lock, muttering curses and promises of his very painful demise under her breath. After all, even the ever happy-go-lucky Rikku can get annoyed…Tidus let out a great sigh, and leaned back against the wall, adjacent to a bed, which was suspended in mid-air by a pair of chains that were anchored diagonally in the wall.

Yuna sat up from her prone position on the bed, and spoke to both of them. "Look, you two, we are all tired, and sick of being in this cell, and I'm sure Sir Auron, and everyone else is too, but we've got to make the best of it. So Tidus, please take it easy on Rikku, she's trying her hardest." Tidus grunted in reply. "Thank you." She added, giving him a slight nod.

"Finally…" Rikku muttered, grumpily. "Someone's on my side…" Tidus had turned and was just about to let her have it, when he received a stern "Tidus…" from Yuna; he reluctantly turned back towards her, mumbling curses under his breath. The trio sat in silence, trying to ignore the rising tension in the room, as Rikku hastily worked on the lock that held the door fast.

Suddenly, the aura of tension that permeated the room was shattered by a dry "click", which came from the lock on the door. "Victory!" Rikku shouted, joyously jumping into the air, celebrating her victory. "Oh, yeah, I rule! …who rules? I do!" She continued, congratulating herself on outsmarting the door's locking mechanism, as she performed that odd little victory dance of her's. She then noticed the glares, (though Yuna's shouldn't even be called a glare), from both Tidus and Yuna.

"Eh heh heh…" She replied, sheepishly, as she scratched her head in embarrassment. "Let's go?" She asked, as she watched the two apprehensively. Tidus and Yuna let out a sigh, and nodded, much to the relief of Rikku, who hated tense moments like these. The trio, albeit a little stiffly, thanks to their fifteen hour detention in this room, exited the room, and found themselves in a cold, utilitarian hallway, with blank walls, along which doors were dispersed randomly.

"Wow…" Tidus began, a frown painted on his face. "Whoever built this place has a drab fashion sense, no posters of me anywhere!" Rikku sighed heavily, while Yuna giggled like a school-girl, Tidus' bigheadedness had once again resurfaced, the Blitzball ace was so full of himself. Rikku was on the verge of throwing him back into that cell, locking it, and leaving him to starve in there.

Who would've thought she could be so…evil? Anyway, ignoring Tidus' idiotic statements, Rikku made her way over to the next door, and rapped sharply on its surface with her knuckles. "Auron? Wakka? Lulu? You in there? Because the company out here stinks!" Rikku whispered the last portion of her sentence, so Tidus couldn't hear her and begin a whole new tirade.

"Ya!" Came Wakka's muffled reply, "Get us the hell out of here! Lu's tryin' to kill me, ya! HEY!" A crash emanated from within the room. Rikku almost burst out laughing when she imagined what was going on in the room. (A/N: Think Shikamaru Chibi style.)

_A chibi version of Wakka was running around the room, while a chibi version of Lulu was chasing him around with the bed (like the one Yuna had been laying on minutes beforehand) held high over her head, ready to bash the Auroch's captain's head in. Auron (chibi style!) was sitting in a corner of the room, sighing heavily while wondering why he never drank his sake. He was contemplating becoming an alcoholic…who wouldn't in this situation?_

Rikku giggled at thought, and fleshed out her lock picking tools once more, just as she was about to set to work, a voice caused her to nearly jump out of her skin. "What'd he do _this_ time, Auron?" Rikku was about to turn and deliver a powerful (and most likely deadly) kick to his Da Vinci, but she stopped when she heard Auron's ever calm voice through the door.

"You don't want-" He was cut off by Wakka, who shouted, most likely still evading Lulu's deadly strikes with the large piece of steel, one hit from that thing would knock out an elephant, though some said that Wakka's skull is as thick as an elephant's, but that can't be known for certain.

"HEY! It isn't my fault; they're so…_big, _ya!"

"What, you son of a bitch?" _Thwack! …thud…_Those two sounds were the most ominous things that Rikku had ever heard; the sounds soon died out within the walls of the room, there was a few moments of stunned silence, and then Rikku suddenly heard Auron chuckling. (A/N: I know that she Lulu is OoC.)

"Oh, he's gonna feel that in the morning…" Auron muttered, chuckling. Before any of them could respond, they heard someone speak.

"Who's gonna feel what in da mornin'?" Came a cheerful voice (with a faux hick accent) from the trio's right. They whirled in that direction and spied something that threw all three of them for a loop. A young man, no older than 16, was standing at the end of the hall, a smirk on his face, and a very interesting weapon hefted over his shoulder. "I bet dat youses are the prisoners, no?" He continued, obviously putting on an act to mask his intelligence.

"Well, than I guess'll hafta ask ya ta come wit me." He finished, apparently he was going to try out for the redneck music awards soon. If this were an anime, Tidus, Yuna, and Rikku would have most likely "sweat-dropped" by now. The boy started to walk towards them, his sneakers clicking loudly in the silence of the hall as he drew closer; suddenly he stopped and cocked a chocolate eyebrow.

Tidus, displaying a lot of bravery, stepped in front of the two girls. He gave the boy a determined glare, and said his tone icy. "I don't know who you are, but if you try to hurt _any_ of us, I'll kick your ass to the…Farplane and back!" The boy seemed to ponder this for a moment, then gave the trio a shrug and replied, his confusion evident.

"The wha?" The boy asked, incredulously. If this were an anime, they would've done the famous "anime fall" by now. But, instead, there was a gasp of pure shock, and the "smack!" of someone slapping a hand to their forehead.

This person was Rikku, who muttered. "What an idiot…" Meanwhile, Yuna poked her head over Tidus' shoulder, having to stand on her tippy-toes to see over the blitz ace's shoulder, and asked a pertinent question, kind of shyly too.

"You don't know what the Farplane is?" He shook his head. Yuna was just about to open her mouth to explain what exactly the Farplane is, when the younger man cut her off.

"I could care less about this "Farplane", now… who's in that room?" He asked, finally speaking in his normal tone of voice, hefting his weapon off of his shoulder, pointing it towards the door that Rikku had, until moments before hand, been planning to unlock. Tidus cast his gaze to the door, and was about to give some evasive reply, when Yuna said, cutting him off, the Blitz Ace was about to choke her; how did she now he wasn't an enemy who was about to kill them over leaving their cell?

"Our friends are in there." The boy's eyes widened, and a small smile appeared on his face, he chuckled, and said, resting his weapon on his shoulder once more.

"More prisoners? Well, this makes my trip that much easier." The boy pushed his way past Tidus, ignoring his objection, slid by Rikku, but not before giving her a once over and winking slyly, before he reached the door. He looked over his shoulder at the trio, and they saw a large smile on his face. "You might wanna stand back." Rikku was the first to object.

"Wait! What do ya think you're-" She was cut short as the boy swung his weapon into the door, imbedding the sharp blade into its surface. The trio watched in shock as the boy, demonstrating surprising strength, drug his scythe through the door's surface, which must've been constructed from stainless steel, wincing and covering their ears as the screech of tearing steel roared in the empty hallway.

After a few minutes of this, the boy withdrew his scythe, and slammed it back into the door, pulling the large gash he had torn in the door open, wider and wider, until finally someone could climb through it. The quartet (three of them releasing their ears from the death-grip that they had them in) then looked through the hole, and examined the people inside of it. The boy was first to speak. "Does the cat need a rabies shot?"

Tidus chuckled at this. "Not sure, kid." He replied, smiling at Kimahri. The large Ronso was sitting in another corner of the room, apparently he had been fast asleep; how he could sleep through a metal door being torn open…it's one of those unanswerable questions…Lulu was sitting on the recently replaced bed, which she had reattached to the wall, and watching Wakka's body, daring him to get up.

Luckily, Wakka was playin' it smart and feigning unconsciousness. Smart move, Wakka. And Auron…well, he was being Auron, and was sitting against the wall next to the door, except there was one difference, his sake jug was near his lips and he had this subtle determination in his eyes to get hammered as humanely possible, and wake up in a bed with someone. But, his hopes were dashed as he cast his gaze to the boy, and setting his jug down, asked in his trademark tone.

"Who are you?" The boy looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face, seriously, it was that weird. It looked like a cross between boyish pride and adult seriousness; which one it is, still remains to be seen. He took up a "manly" pose, legs spread apart at shoulder-width, right fist resting on his hip, and his left thumb jacked into his chest. He swung his head around, an _extremely_ proud smile appearing on his mug.

"I have many names." He began, moving his right arm in dramatic sweeping motions to add to the affect of his introduction. If one had an imagination like this boy's, you would be hearing Kabuki music in the background. "I am…" He paused, practically soaking up the anticipation in the room. "The _Fifth_ Horsemen, the Bleeding Phoenix, and Ladies Man in training…" He began to hop sideways on one foot, his arm placed out in front of him, his palm exposed and fingers spread wide apart.

"I AM…Mattheis Hiashin-sama!" Everyone present, except Mattheis, performed something that displayed what they felt about his little "entrance". Tidus, groaned heavily, Yuna, giggled, Rikku, sighed, Kimahri, stared, Auron, stared with mouth open, Wakka, burst out laughing, and finally, Lulu, glared and asked a question.

"You couldn't wait to do that, could you?" Matt nodded, smiling widely.

"It was the coolest bloody thing you've ever seen, right?" He asked, Lulu sighed, and was about to return his question with some abrasive comment, when Yuna piped in.

"It was funny! Lord Mattheis!" Matt's smile turned into a slightly cheerful one, as he closed his eyes and scratched his head, a small chuckle emanating from him. He was trying to act bashful…like he could…

"Really?" But, he was thinking something entirely different. _Omigod! She called me "Lord"…I feel so cool! Oh, I am so going to gloat when I get back to-_ He never got to finish his thought, his eyes widened, his body reacting on pure muscle memory as his ears picked up a voice that didn't belong to any of his newest "homies".

"_Hey!_ What the fuck are you doing out of your cells!" Matt fleshed out a knife, (ignoring the gasps of shock from Yuna and Rikku) and, grasping the edge of the tear in the metal of the door with his hand, he vaulted through it, barely missing striking Tidus in the head with his foot. As soon as his feet touched the ground, the knife was already hurtling towards the Soviet, who was currently radioing in the prisoners escape.

It struck him dead between the eyes, causing him to collapse to the ground, dead, his radio clattering the floor inches away, someone still trying to reach the recently departed. Exactly five seconds later, the alarm began to blare loudly, its eerie wail echoing through the underground base, Matt cursed loudly. "_Kuso! (Damn it!)_" He turned to his newest comrades, the severity of the situation imprinted deeply onto his young face.

"Move." He ordered.

"But we need our weapons, ya!" It was, of course, Wakka who spoke. Matt eyed the islander with ill-hidden suspicion, but then nodded.

"Fine, but try anything funny, it's straight to hell with you." Lulu was about to comment on this, but, amazingly, she was silenced by Matt's icy stare. And, without further adieu, the group began to hurry to their destination: the armory, where apparently they stored the weapons of their captives. They arrived within a few minutes, surprisingly uninhibited by any of the base's guardsmen, they found the door unlocked while Matt stood guard outside, impatiently tapping his foot.

While Matt stood outside, the Spirans rooted around the immense rows of weapons that filled the rather small, rectangular armory. "He's a strange one, ain't he?" Rikku muttered, rummaging around for her Godhand. There was a chuckle from Tidus as he found Caladborg, and he, hefting it over his shoulder, replied.

"You just figured it out?" He ducked as Rikku chucked a clip (for a gun) at him; it nearly struck him, its tailwind ruffling his golden locks. "Hey! That nearly hit me!"

"I think that was the point." Auron commented, leaning on his Masamune. Tidus glared at the undead Guardian.

"Don't get involved in this, old-timer." Auron cocked a salt-and-pepper brow, and was about to respond, when Matt's stern voice cut through the air.

"Enough chatting, fags! Get your rears in gear!" Wakka looked up, and tucked the World Champion under his arm. He had an extremely annoyed expression on his face, as did everyone else. _He's an impatient little bastard…_ Wakka thought, then suddenly, an idea struck him. He turned to Rikku, who had been standing behind him in her search for her Godhand. They exchanged whispers for a moment, and Rikku nodded.

Taking a naturally sweet, and innocent voice that she owned, and adding a little seductive flavoring to it, she called. "Mattheis…" This sweet, yet seductive melody would arouse any teenage boy in his right mind, and by right mind; not gay. Almost on cue, Matt poked his head around into the room, his eyes closed and a slightly perverted smirk on his face.

"Yeeeeees?" He cooed, perverted thoughts clearly dancing through his mind. Without warning, Wakka, with a grunt, flung the World Champion at Matt, intending on knocking boy unconscious. Wakka allowed a smirk to cross his tanned face, the plan had gone off without a hitch. But his smirk quickly faded as the Spirans saw something that they thought could never happen. Matt calmly opened his eyes, and he raised his index finger in front of his face.

The deadly blitzball collided against it and…stopped. It clattered to the floor, and Matt looked up at Wakka, a pseudo-cheerful smile gracing his lips. "You have ten seconds to leave the room, or I'll split your heads open with my scythe." He warned, as he brought his foot down on Wakka's blitzball, crushing it under his shoe. He picked up the ball, and tossed the deflated, yet still spiked form at Wakka, who caught it, staring at it in shock.

"I'll get it fixed later, just a temporary warning to not attempt another rebellion." He said, sincerely. The Spirans nodded (a few of them scared of what the young man could do to them) and followed him out of the room, having grabbed all their weapons right as Matt crushed Wakka's blitzball. They walked through the cold, utilitarian halls of the base, running into only two Soviets, Matt quickly dealt with them, in rather bloody fashion. Apparently this "bloody berserker" he spoke of had rubbed off on him.

After about fifteen minutes, the group came to a service elevator, the Spirans boarded the small elevator, in silence while Matt talked about this "bloody berserker" that they were going to meet pretty damn quick. "Now don't be too surprised if there is a large pile of corpses, Damien-niisan always forgets to bring the damn matches." Matt chuckled, shuddering at the thought of seeing another unlit funeral pyre. The elevator had started by now, and was halfway through its descent. Then, Yuna asked an odd question.

"What does he look like, Mattheis-sama?" Matt smiled grimly at Yuna. Tidus groaned.

"Yuna, for the last time, he's not a lor-!"

"You'll see." Was Matt's only reply. The group fell into a hushed calm for a few seconds, but it was amazingly broke by Lulu, who asked another question.

"Why did you tell us there would be a lot of corpses?" Matt chuckled and replied, quietly.

"You'll see." Any further questioning was cut off by the small "ping" of the elevator rumbling to a halt at its destination. The doors creaked open, and Matt was first out, and when he saw what lay outside the doors of the elevator, a surprised smirk flew across his face, he arched a brown eyebrow as he examined his comrade's handiwork, before he commented. "Man, Dam, looks like you had some fun."

Damien looked up from polishing his sword with a black silk cloth, and a small, almost imperceptible smile crossed his features. "…Of course…" He replied, returning to his polishing. He had noticed that Mattheis had brought the prisoner's along with him, but he didn't really care, they would see what havoc this Horseman could wreak. He heard gasps, and a few "Oh my Yevon…"

What they were gawking at was truly a sight to see. Behind Damien, was a scattering of many, many corpses in a circular pattern, their bodies mangled beyond recognition, gore was splattered everywhere, some of the bodies still leaked their lifeblood onto the ground, tainting it further with red fluid. Damien had taken no notice of this, and was currently sitting upon a particularly mangled body, polishing his blade, not a care in the world.

"Why did you kill them? And why in the hell are you sitting on a corpse! It's disrespectful to the dead!" Damien heard Tidus as he began his rant, Damien looked up at the young boy, and fixed him with a smile that wasn't at all pleasant, which shut him up pretty quick. Damien's smile faded, as shivers still traveling down Tidus' spine, and he spoke, his voice calm and quiet.

"Because they deserved it." He replied, and was about to say more when a shrill ringing tone cut through the air. Damien cocked a silvery brow, and dug his hand into his pocket; he rooted around in silence for a few minutes, the Spirans watching in absolute confusion (except Auron, who was never confused). He found what he was looking for: a small, silver device. Damien flipped it open, and put it up to his ear.

After a few seconds, he pressed a button. He then nodded, and beckoned to Matt, who came over and took the phone. Matt raised it to his ear, and spoke into it. "Yello…I told you to never call me that…in my other pants…stop calling me "Matteo" and I'll agree to anything…what?" Matt talked to the person on the other side of the line for a few moments, and then cast a glance over his shoulder, smiling at Tidus and Company.

"Alright, Capi-tan." Matt flipped the phone shut and pocketed it, before turning back to the assembled Spirans and speaking. "What my buddy here, Damien Nocturne, 4th Horseman, was about elaborate on, was that these people are called: "Soviets". The most downright, dirty sonovabitches you'll ever meet." Matt paused, pointing to the corpse that Damien had made into a chair. "He deserved to go hell." This revelation was met with stunned silence for a moment, before amazingly, Auron spoke up.

"I see…spring cleaning, eh?" Damien chuckled.

"Something like that…" He muttered, looking Auron up and down. "Oh, and Red, may your fallen master rest in peace." Damien added, his voice sounded like he was…sad. Auron's eyes widened in shock for what seemed like the first time in ages. How had known about Braska? He had considered Braska his master and friend, for breaking him out of that cell in Bevelle for not marrying the daughter of some high priest, along with that simpleton, Jecht.

"A man, like me, who follows the code of the samurai, should know when a comrade has lost their master, your arm tucked into your coat, the loss of a master, or the loss of a sword arm; all very symbolic." Damien finished, before returning to his sword. Matt stood there, surprised. He had never known Damien followed Bushido; he had never spoken of it, and…hell! This was the most that Damien ever spoke in one day! (A/N: Forgive me, Nightmare, but this seemed so perfect for Damien! Bushido, I mean.)

"Oh, and Mattheis," Damien turned to his comrade, a scowl on his face. "No Hellgun."

Matt's face contorted into a scowl and he greeted the morning sky with a loud. "KUUUSSOO!" If there were any windows nearby, they would've probably shattered by now. Lulu took her hands from her ears, as did the rest of the Spirans; Damien currently had a pained expression on his face, he hadn't covered his ears from the force of Matt's cursing, the Rooster would be able to take today off.

"What is this…Hellgun?"

"It's a "gun", so they use machina!" Wakka accused them, with a finger pointed in their direction. Damien sighed, and stuck his pinky finger into his ear, trying to restore his hearing. Meanwhile, Lulu had cuffed Wakka upside the head, while giving him a stern: "Shut up, Wakka." Matt cracked his knuckles, and then cut off the entirety of the remaining questions with a "Saint-like" response.

"A good question," Matt said, verbatim, "if you follow me, all of your questions shall be answered." Damien groaned, and muttered, shaking his head. That sentence always worked when recruiting, Saint should have gotten a patent for it.

"You stole that from Saint." Matt whirled on him.

"Shut up! He steals all my women! I have to have something to steal back!" Damien blinked at him a few times, as did the rest of the group, before Matt pushed his fingers together and said, a blush creeping over his cheeks. "Never-mind, let's just skedaddle." Damien nodded, and stood up, brushing the gore from the seat of his pants. He then made his over to the bank of Soviet transport that resided fairly far away from them, Matt and company in tow.

They all climbed into the transport, and took off towards the base's gates, having already left their mark behind. The corpses had formed the mark in the interior of the base; they had formed a circle with a cross residing in the center of it, the symbol of their leader, Saint. Who had made it the symbol of the Rebellion a long time ago. After opening the gates, the two Rebels had set off, into the rising sun, back to their home base in Spain.

About an hour after leaving the base, Matt turned to Damien, a perverted smile gracing his lips. "Damien, did you see the jugs on that one girl…Lulu?" Damien was about to scoff, but was cut off by said girl.

"WHAT?" Was Lulu's response as she whirled on the 5th Horseman. Matt's shrieks of agony could be heard across the world.

A/N: It is finally done, sorry for the long wait. I've been a lazy butt this summer, this year…anyway, I'm taking a short break, and then I'll get the next chappie up…where…_all _of the Hellraisers are introduced. Thank you for waiting, and possibly returning to WTEAW, as the updates will begin anew in two weeks, with another chapter up in a…month, maybe in three weeks, who knows, anyway, thanks for reading!

T.L.


End file.
